“The friendship of so many great men who, from Théophile Gautier to Sylvestre Bonnard, have venerated you as a god, might have warned me that I was wrong to distrust you.
“Forgive me. Bonnetty has proved to me that you are neither indocile nor cruel; henceforth I will live with you in greater intimacy, on terms of confidential affection.”
And whilst pussy purred loudly in the warmth of the dying embers, I bent over him and softly murmured, like a religious invocation, the beautiful sonnet written by Jules Lemaître, the gentle friend of cats and of myself: [p132]
Mon chat, hôte sacré de ma vieille maison,
De ton dos électrique arrondis la souplesse,
Viens te pelotonner sur mes genoux, et laisse
Que je plonge mes doigts dans ta chaude toison.
Ferme à demi, les reins émus d’un long frisson,
Ton œil vert qui me raille et pourtant me caresse,
Ton œil vert semé d’or qui, chargé de paresse,